Love Past Tense

A man perches on a half finished roof top,

On the wooden rail that holds the tarp down,

His feet up on the edge of board that marks the wall,

Smoking a cigarette and texting his girlfriend.

He should call her his ex really.

But he can’t get used to that term yet.

He stops himself from adding an I love you,

Pausing to look out across his vantage point.

To the houses that are already built,

Orange red brick from decades ago,

Square and sturdy with walls that are thick.

He presses send quick and stubs out the cigarette.

The forklift has delivered batches of roof tiles

Which he begins to move from one end

Of the scaffolding to another to make room

For more. More of the same identical humped slats.

A mate calls up a quip from the ground and he

Finds himself smiling in spite of knowing

That soon she will be round collecting her bits.

Keys on the table,  gone before he gets home.

A pause while the forklift brings another load.

He checks his phone leaning up against that roof.

Yes she says. This afternoon will be fine.

He tries to ignore that bit at the end; love past tense.